One Plausible Scenario
by Phoenix Satori
Summary: Derek tries his hand at story-telling and finds himself devilishly proficient. Emphasis on 'devilishly.' rated for adult-type touching. ::Dasey::
1. laugh of the confiding male

HELLO, FAIR CITIZENS OF THE WORLD.

(I'm listening to Imogen Heap's 'I Megaphone' presently, and who knew it'd be so...chilling? It's still beautiful, of course, but in a totally terrifying, creepy sort of way.)

Anycoffee (--I've started inserting java and java-related terminology into every conversation, especially when it's inappropriate and/or otherwise hilariously incongruous. Apparently now it's sneaking into the more individual, lexical units of my vernacular. ohdeargod),

Here are the two facts you must know coming into this, ladies and gents: first of all, this is going to be a new series (probably substantially shorter than _University Steps_, and also! this time there's going to be continuity and a cohesive-ish storyline and EVERYTHING. never done that before), and secondly, you are probably all going to be somewhat confused/alarmed when you're finished reading this chapter. All I'm going to say beyond that is that Derek and Casey are at a dinner party, they're in their sophomore year of college, and that all is not as it seems. *wink, nudge*

The next chapter should be available in a few days (I've got it all planned out), and eventually...when my muse arises from the dead on the third day and traverses the dark caverns of my mind in shining new zombie form, I'll try to make heads and tails outta the next chapter of _USteps_, which is currently giving me an ulcer.

[i own a magical blanket that fends off ghouls. i'm willing to trade it for Michael Seater.]

* * *

_::in which the Lie is the New Truth::_

"Ah, young man. You got roped in, too, huh? Well, misery's gotta have company, I guess, or he'd have to be at Samantha's side, being 'inherently embarrassing' by the 'mere fact of his existence.'" The older gentleman glares out into the small crowd over the rim of his wine glass. The younger of the two nods at his fellow in commiseration. How well he knows the plight of the subjugated male. (He's skimmed the literature.)

"Tell me about it, my good sir. _My _girlfriend –that's her over there in the blue and silver—_black-mailed_ me into coming here."

"She _does_ look the type. Beautiful, vindictive…"

"Certifiably insane..."

"Well, I sympathize, young man. _Women, _am I right?"

"I _know_. You make _one_ little mistake, cheat on her with just _one_ of her best friends a _few_ times at her dad's funeral –_honestly_, _who_ wants to be with Weepy McSadsack? I mean, _keep it together_—and then she starts coming up with tired ways to _bore_ you to death at social functions _designed_ to torment upstanding gentlemen such as ourselves." He nods sagely, hand on his chin, while the other man looks at him in vague, disbelieving horror.

"I, uh…that's hmmm…"

"Well, I s'ppose I should just be glad that she doesn't know that I've been seeing her cousin Vicky on the side. Then I'd _really_ be in trouble." Derek laughs the laugh of the Confiding Male and then catches Casey gesturing at him from across the room. With a final conspiratorial, parting wink up at his elder, he leaves to join her.

* * *

If you're not all 'wtf'-ing at the moment, then I have not done my job right.


	2. there be hedons here

(This website is, once again, being an obstinate b*tch. I had to _cheat_ to post this.)

Meanwhile.

Climb now, darlings, into the nearest handy time machine, and let us travel back to the week preceding the events of the first chapter. Drabble. Whatever. This'll be the format of the fic from here-on-in. We'll be going back and forth (from the party to the events leading up to party) until you're all well and thoroughly discombobulated.

Hopefully, something like a plot will emerge in the midst of this mangled travesty I (somewhat hestitantly) call a story.

[i own all of the tangled stupidity preceding and following this chapter. and that's...that's all, really.]

* * *

_::in which Derek has no compunctions whatsoever and likes it that way::_

Derek is, first and foremost, a gentleman of leisure.

To the laymen: a charming slacker. To the step-sister: a 'promising candidate for Inevitable Dereliction.' He likes his meals deliverable (or, when funds are lacking, microwave-able), enjoys taking naps whenever he pleases (which is often), and prefers his lady-friends the complete opposite of Casey: chill, uncomplicated, blonde, and drama-free. If he can find someone to pay to do his homework and take his tests for him, excellent. If he can con one of his teammates into buying him a six-pack, superb.

Devoted as he is to this blissful, shameless self-indulgence, he's ever-vigilant to seize opportunities that contribute, in large or small part, to funding his lifestyle of choice, particularly those opportunities which require the least amount of effort. Hence, he is secondly an entrepreneur of Swiftest Cunning. (Or, what some would –aptly—term 'Smooth Operating,' and Casey would more likely call 'Heinous Treachery.')

This entails actively exploiting his vast well of Natural Resources (his roguish charm, his quick wit, his dashing good looks, his raw, animal sexuality, etc.), his extensive experience, and occasionally, innocent by-standers (when they're convenient, or if he thinks it might be funny). Usually he has to engineer his own prospects (a responsibility he assumes with almost no objection whatsoever, which is rare indeed), though he's still partial to the kind that just fall generously into his lap.

His newest project has been in the works now for nearly a week and fits obligingly into this latter category. It hasn't required much more from him than persistent rejections of an invitation to what sounds to him like the lamest party of the year (and possibly of all time), though (admittedly) he's had to maneuver the refusals carefully. Craftily.

The object is to leave room for doubt, to let Casey think that if she's tenacious enough (and she always, always is), he'll eventually cave and go with her to her Very (stuffy) Important Social Function. The trick is to do this in such a way that she'll eventually be forced to move from asking to demanding, and from there on to threatening, which segues naturally (for reasons unknown to him; this tactic has never worked on him before –for anyone but Marti—and he suspects it never will) into an attempt to guilt him into submission, until at long last they arrive (inevitably) at his most favorite stage of the Favor-Begging-Process: the Bribery Negotiation.

When he hears the crash of feet clanging up the stairs, he stretches languidly and hops to his feet, prepared for battle.

Then, some eight or nine seconds later, Opportunity knocks.

* * *

All shall become clear in time.

(Possibly.)

Chapter 3's already written and ready to post, and I'll obligingly do so once ffnet pulls its fingers out of its bum.

And yes, I think I'll have soy in my chai.


	3. glitch in the matrix

Aaaaaand now? Back to the party, right where last we left it.

(for jo, 'cause I luff her.)

[yesterday, i had to choose between budgeting for coffee monies for the next week and purchasing the second season of LwD. i'm watching 'Middle Manic' as we speak. i thought i should get a cut of the proceeds, but ballon's lawyer didn't agree.]

* * *

_::in which Derek makes a most inconvenient discovery::_

"_De_-rek, that was my Developmental Psychology professor's husband! _What_ did you say to him? I thought we agreed that you would keep your big mouth shut!" She's pulled him into the foyer so as not to be seen Being Casey.

"Chillz, Case, he was just venting about his marital problems." Her eyes get very, very big. (Uh-oh.) She's about to go Conclusion Jumping.

"_Marital problems_? Oh, god, Derek, you've _ruined_ my professor's _marriage_?! What, did you remind him how rewarding the 'good old days' were, give him your rousing 'play the field' speech? She's going to know it was you, and that _you_ came with _me_, and she's going to be so depressed and angry and I'll _never_ be a research assistant now!" She makes a whimpering noise. "Oh, _no_." It's the face Normal People might wear in the wake of being notified that their entire family had been brutally murdered. "I'm going to become a _social worker_." He doesn't trust the look in her eyes, like she's about to cry and probably also rip off his face.

"_Casey_. I was just helping myself to a glass of wine. He came up to _me_ and just started talking. Their marriage is not _ruined_; he's just having a mid-life crisis moment or something." She looks at him sharply, skeptically, assessing (he supposes) his sincerity (not that she'll ever _really_ be able to gauge such a thing with _him_).

"…you're sure?"

"_Yes, _Basket Casey. Now put the Crazy down and back away _very slowly_…" After another moment or two, it looks like he's not gonna have to call the paramedics to insert a breathing tube, after all.

"Okay. Okay-okay. Okay-okay-okay. Deep, cleansing breaths. No harm done. Everything's fine. Perfect. _Under control_." (Oh, how he enjoys these moments of pure insanity.) "Sorry for freaking out on you, then." He is never going to understand how she can move so quickly from one extreme to another, because she's back from borderline hysteria and on to nervous-perky again in the space of a blink. It's damn disorienting.

"Now, now. What sort of social gathering would it be if you _didn't_ have some sort of psychotic episode? You've given me certain expectations, McDonald, and I'm always disappointed when you don't live up to them." He dodges the heel of her shoe just in time, laughing when the narrow point goes sliding against the polished floor and she loses her balance. The flailing routine that follows is more hilarious still, but he eventually reaches out to steady her at the elbows, and thankfully she seems to be finished trying to impale his feet with the pointy weapons attached to hers (if for no other reason than to avoid _actually_ wiping out).

While she concentrates on trying to compose herself, he lowers his mouth to her ear (he keeps his fingers wrapped around her elbows so he'll know if she makes any sudden movements which might indicate another attempt to cause him harm),

"My whole 'living dangerously' philosophy isn't meant to be taken _quite_ that literally." His grin broadens impossibly (he feels the smile leap up into his eyes and doesn't even try to retrieve it) when she threatens to disembowel him with the dinner flatware in the next room. "Now, are you going to trust that I'm capable of being on my own without your constant supervision, or is this dragging me into the hallway thing going to be happening a lot tonight?"

"Trusting you would violate the very core precept of my ethically-fortified, anti-Derek philosophy." He pulls himself closer to her, his nose inadvertently nuzzling her cheek, and says something he hopes will throw her off her game for the rest of the evening.

"I was hoping you'd say that, Princess." He sets one hand carefully, so carefully, with just the whisper of pressure against her throat, and he feels her swallow (thickly) at the same time her eyelids start to flutter, possibly unconsciously, her mind apparently at odds with her body as one (perhaps?) insists that she Not Be Affected At All and the other sing-songs in syrupy tones that she simply close her eyes and _feel_—"'Cause I was hoping to have more alone time with my favorite sister…" His other hand abandons its former post at her arm, forsaking it for the enticing curve of her hip, smoothing effortlessly over slippery, water-soft silk until his fingers encounter the apex of her thigh and he realizes –with staggering, gut-churning certainty (having just verified the information for himself)—that she…isn't wearing underwear.

At this critical point, his mind comes wheezing back into his skull, apologizing breathlessly for being late (it invents some hare-brained excuse about being 'caught up in the middle of something important and babe-related'), then hurriedly assessing the situation for all of two microseconds before it starts firing off urgent, panicked instructions to his arms to (abort! abort!) push her forcefully away from him, and after she's been safely expelled from his embrace, he dedicates most of his brain function to constructing an extensive chain of uninterrupted obscenity.

She's already turned back to rail at him, fury embossing the brightness of her eyes, and he has to get this freak accident under control –_fast_—before anyone (namely himself) does anything they will later (probably-definitely-maybe-absolutely) regret.

"I'll be on my very best behavior, Casey." He swears, with as much sincerity as he is capable of mustering when telling a bold-faced lie (which is surprisingly a _lot_), temporarily defraying the disturbance, if only because she appears to be confused about the escalating absurdity of this…unfortunate glitch in the matrix. "I promised, didn't I?"

"Der—"

"So there's no need to be baby-sit me. You do your thing, I'll hang out with the food and the disgruntled spouses, and everyone goes home happy. Well, maybe not your Prof's hubby, but I doubt he _ever_ goes home happy." Normally, he'd step forward, lay a hand on her shoulder, maybe give it a (condescending) squeeze to rudely, deliberately violate her personal space. But he's pretty sure he shouldn't be touching her anymore. (For the moment, anyway. Certainly not while she's wearing that…that…very shiny…abomination.) "Yeah?" She looks very much like she still wants to yell at him for pushing her, and possibly also for less specific reasons, such as his being generally: 'untrustworthy, perfidious, and emotionally broken' (some of his most favorite Casey slings), but he's called attention to the party she'd left to come lecture him in the foyer, and she appears to be deciding that he isn't currently as important as potential internship prospects.

Which is precisely what he'd wanted.

Which makes it awfully damn confusing that the achievement is so upsetting.

"…yeah." Casey says, finally, exhaling deeply and straightening, slapping her composure back into place for schmoozing. The Façade Application makes it easier for him to be excited about getting rid of her.

"Great. I'll be heading back to the buffet table now for some more of those whore's doovers."

"_Hors d'oeuvres_, Derek." He stares at her blankly until she throws a hand into the air in frustration. "Never mind. I don't how I keep forgetting that you have the sophistication of an adolescent chimp…I'll be back. Stay out of trouble." With a final warning glare, she turns away to leave him, and his sigh of relief mercifully washes the tension right out of his entire body.

…until he can't stop himself from checking out her ass (for at least the _seven-hundredth time_ _tonight_) as she walks away.

(Oh, for _fuck's sakes_.)

* * *

Apparently, I'm not as finished with this fandom as I'd thought.

I keep _trying _to move on, but its hold is much stronger than I'd anticipated. (_'I wish I could quit you!'_)

Ah, well.

(And just to let you know: *serious* writer's block for second half of 'prank wars.' I _am_ working on it, I promise, but it is *not* happening at the moment.)

Ciao~


	4. this is definitely not okay

Well. Took me long enough.

Been working on other things, sorry to say, but first round of tests are over and I thought I'd celebrate by writing something utterly without redeeming value.

So here's this. :)

And, just so everyone's clear --this picks up where chapter two left off.

(Also. There's a treat for ya'll at the end...)

[you think you own whatever show you write foooooor! the fandom's just a dead thing you can claaaaaim! but i know every set and scene and actor, has a life, has a spirit, has a naaaaaame! --i own neither the native american princess nor lwd. alas!--]

* * *

_::in which Derek loses the upperhand quite suddenly and has no idea how it happened::_

"What are your terms?" Derek _would_ be bothered by the Incredibly Rude way she shoulders past him and stomps into his lair without permission, but there's something about the outfit she's wearing (he can't help but wonder if Casey'd accidentally packed one of Lizzie's skirts without realizing it) that makes him more amenable to her presence than usual.

"Terms? Whatever do you mean?" She sends him a look that communicates unto him a Vivid, Nasty Death.

"_De-rek_." He's otherwise occupied discovering a newfound appreciation for the letter 'v' (and the things that said letter does to necklines), his gaze caught by a rogue flash of orange lace and its good friend, Insinuated Cleavage, so he mostly misses what it is she's been saying. "…f I don't show up with a date, I'll be a _laughing stock_, and I can't very well go find myself an _actual boy_ to bring along, because I doubt Truman would be thrilled to hear that I'd taken someone who isn't him to an official occasion, and I wouldn't want to lead anyone on, besides, because it isn't good manners and there's always the possibility it'll turn into a Noel situation where he'll misunderstand entirely and…" He tunes her out again, wondering what in freaking hell is wrong with his brain, and why in the world it's insisting that he might actually enjoy Casey's mouth being open if she were only doing something useful with it. This sickening thought is followed (unhelpfully) by him jumping back into her monologue at really the worst possible time: "…just _tell_ me what you want already, so we can get this doubtlessly unpleasant business out of the way and I can get back to my regularly scheduled life." Casey, this is _Casey_, dammit, he reminds himself frantically. He _cannot_ ask his (_step-_)_sister_ for sexual favors. "The one without you in it, I mean." She clarifies, toe tapping impatiently.

"Why don't we try it this way, instead. You tell _me_ what you're willing to offer, and I'll up the price considerably from there." Hedging against the air of Impending Strangulation that follows this recommendation, he lifts his hands in a placating gesture, "And I _promise_ I'll be as difficult about the process as I possibly can be." Casey's teeth gnash together savagely at the same time her fingers roll into fists at her sides. He imagines her counting to ten in her head and feels a grin tilting his lips up at one corner.

Purely out of curiosity, he wonders what would happen if he poked her. Just as his fingers start twitching involuntarily, encouraging Immediate Provoking Action, she pinches the bridge of her nose in aggravation and exhales sharply, deflating in resignation.

"Alright," she breathes, "_fine_." She glowers attractively. "But _only_ because I'm desperate." She looks temporarily mystified at this admission, but quickly shakes it off in favor huffing in irritation and pointedly crossing her arms at him. He definitely doesn't notice what this does to her chest. And he's definitely _not_ ogling his step-sister in his living room. (NotNot_NOT_—) "How about this," she begins, snapping him physically out of his treacherous mental meanderings, "two 'Get-A-Date-Free' cards, redeemable at the time of your choosing, good for whichever of my friends your repulsive little mind desires, with the attached stipulation that there be no expectation of intercourse." Derek stares at her dumbly for what feels like an uncomfortably long time. He doesn't think he's quite ready to process why Casey saying 'intercourse' with such frank, clinical detachment is suctioning all the air out of his lungs. "And don't you dare think for one instant that the thought of trading human beings for a favor isn't _enormously_ repugnant to me; I wouldn't be offering at all if they hadn't volunteered to be put up as bartering tokens." Casey looks positively disgusted.

After another lengthy silence, wherein he reacquires the ability to speak,

"What, _all_ of them?" She glares at him for several seconds, fuming.

"Enough of them to make this offer valid. And also _vile_." He chuckles, delighted. Then he considers challenging her offer, reflecting on the necessity of it if so many of her friends are clearly willing to be used as objects of commerce in the hopes of landing a date with him.

Instead,

"Make it three," he proposes, smirking wickedly.

"Derek—"

"Three, or no deal." Her jaw clenches.

"_Fine_."

"Aaaand, what else?" He waves his hand for her to continue, and watches with interest as her fingernails bite into the flesh of her upper arm. He entertains the idea that he may actually be courting his own death.

"One free meal, on me, anywhere you'd like."

"Who says I wanna eat with you?"

"I never offered to 'eat with you.' I'm buying, and then I'm leaving just as quickly as I possibly can." Derek cocks his head to one side, considering her.

"What if I want the company of my most favorite lil' sister?" She seethes at him.

"_Step_-sister. And that's not part of the deal." He twirls his imaginary beard contemplatively.

"Three meals." Casey is outraged.

"I work at the library, Derek, I'm not a tenured professor. I can't afford—"

"_And_ you have to stay and keep me company."

"De-_rek_, what part of 'I can't afford to pay for'—"

"What's next?" He wonders eagerly, cutting her off. Her mouth hangs open in livid astonishment. She's obviously beside herself, but Derek's too busy realizing how perfectly white her teeth are to pay much attention. (Even if he _had_ been paying attention, though, he'd have been too busy being himself to really care.)

"_You_—"

"Are doing you this huge, last-minute favor for such a _reasonable_ fee, I _know_. I'm shocked, too." She actually takes a step forward, hands falling to her sides to furl spastically. Menacingly.

He thinks it's adorable.

"_One_ assignment. I'll help you with _one_ assignment. Any subject, any project, just let me know in advance so I have time to properly research and prepare myself for the material."

"…how about _three_ assignments? And instead of 'helping,' which, I will remind you, would require us being around each other for potentially long stretches of time, how 'bout you just do the assignments for me?"

Ah, there's that lovely Murderous Tic. It's been far, far too long.

"_Very well_." She growls. And then she's stalking toward him, one finger leveled dangerously in his general direction. Her eyes are so narrow he wonders that she can see at all. "But you have to _promise_ to be _civilized_ (--has she ever MET him?--), and not to talk to _anyone_ unless you're first spoken to. This evening _has_ to go well, and you will _not_ hit on anyone, play pranks, or embarrass me in any way, or our agreement is null and void." By the time she has him backed into a corner, chest heaving furiously, fingers splayed against his pecs, he's ready to consent to just about anything. "I could be the first sophomore research assistant _ever_ here, and you've got this stupid, infuriating charm that people just…just _buy_ for some reason completely beyond my understanding, and you _will_ use it to help me land this position." Casey's breath drags across his chin when she pulls up onto her tip-toes to intimidate him, smelling faintly of mint and deliciously fruity. He focuses very carefully on Not Breathing. "_Got it_?" Derek can't say for certain whether or not he nodded vigorously, vaguely, or not at all, but whatever he's done seems to have satisfied her, because she pulls gradually away from him, sliding gracefully back onto her heels with the menacing look still locked into place for good measure. "Good." She steps fully out of his space, and it troubles him that his mind is still crawling along at snail's pace, burbling scandalous incoherencies in between stints of being Completely Useless. "I'll be back tomorrow around noon to figure out what you're going to wear."

"That sounds…" He searches frantically for the snark, horrified that this is actually _difficult_, "horrifying." She purses her lips briefly, but decides not to dignify him with a response.

And then she's flouncing away, striding briskly out of his apartment without so much as a backward glance, and Derek decides that he needs to sleep with someone, preferably blonde, definitely angry.

(This is a State of Emergency: Threat Level Red.)

* * *

I hear that Starbucks is gonna be doing a new promotional thing-a-ma-bob involving taste-testing of delicious NEW JAVA, which will thereafter be rewarded with FREE COFFEE.

I'm elated enough at this truly fantastic prospect to share with you this Exclusive Sneak Peek at the next chapter of _University Steps_ (now approximately 70% complete), a bitty snippet from the aforementioned Dasey Pool Action:

***~~~***

Something's happening here. He's not sure what, exactly, but he knows it's big and he thinks there's a good chance that Casey's bare, trembling thighs, fastened at his waist (where her already short skirt is anticipating the promotion to _Obscene_), may have a little something to do with it.

"Derek," she says, and he meets her gaze with a piercing look that appears to be making her nervous. (_Good_, he thinks; if there's going to be a battle, he'd rather have the higher ground.) "Why…" She chokes on her resolve, glances away, lip rolled between her teeth, suddenly unsure. Vulnerable. "Why did you—"

"Look at me, Case." He commands softly, and she obeys without question. Which he's pretty sure she's never done before. (It's how he knows that this…is the _Twilight Zone_.)

"Let me go, Derek." She says, and because this isn't Opposite Land, where the step-brother her mother inflicted upon her all those many long years ago actually _listens_ to what she tells him, his grip tightens.

"No."

***~~~***

Just a taste. ^_^

It's been coming out in short, frustrating spurts, but it _has_ been coming, so...ya know. Bear with me.

Thanks so much for your patience and continued support, chums. Means muy, muy much.


	5. ambushed by skeletor

I promise I know where this is going.

(Sort of.)

...would it help if I promised that Derek and Casey'll be making out in a few chapters?

_--picks up where chapter 3 left us--_

[once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away, i _still_ didn't own the rights to lwd.]

* * *

_::in which Derek encounters He-Man's arch-nemesis::_

Derek takes roughly five steps into the main room before he's ambushed by Skeletor.

"Well, aren't you just delectable?" The skeleton-masquerading-as-a-woman purrs, stepping in front of him and gently grazing her talons –er, fingers—against his Very Smart, Casey-Approved sport coat.

"Yes, yes I am." He returns, smooth as ever, smiling graciously past the instinctive, primal terror that this frighteningly emaciated, excessively over-made spider-lady inspires. He supposes she _could_ be pretty, if she rethought the twelve pounds of make-up and maybe _ate_ something –preferably not _him_—

"Someone's got a terribly high opinion of himself." She chides, and the sound of her laughter is actually fairly pleasant, but Derek's always been more the 'judge a book by its cover' type, so he's having a difficult time moving past the anxious feeling that she's trying to entice him into letting down his guard so she can lure him away somewhere private and feast on his (probably delicious) boy-flesh (and _wow_, he has got to cut down on the amount of comic books he reads).

In the meantime, he follows unthinkingly where The Lie steers him, mindful of his promised schmoozing obligations, aware that he is an important part of the good impression Casey needs to make tonight and determined to be a great deal less…cavalier about his Sabotage Efforts than usual. His treacheries must be quiet and crafty and above all else, Casey must never know of them, lest she deny him his Just Rewards for generously agreeing to be her escort for the evening.

…huh.

'_Escort_,' was it?

Well.

"Comes with the territory, 'm afraid."

"Oh? And what territory is that, exactly?" She hefts a brow in playful bemusement. He rewards her with his most devastating grin, satisfied when her (gigantic) eyelashes flutter appreciatively.

"I wouldn't say, but you look like someone I can trust." His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. She nods, eager and encouraging. "Don't tell anyone I told you this," he shifts his gaze quickly left and right, playing at making sure his surroundings are clear, "but I'm…a professional." She draws in a dramatic breath.

"You mean…" Derek nods somberly. "_Well_. Miss McDonald is a young woman of impeccable taste, then." He isn't sure what 'impeccable' means, exactly, but the way she sweeps her gaze admiringly over The Goods provides him with clues enough to understand that it's probably meant to be praise. "Tell me," she begins, now fully leering, "what's she paying you?" And then, before he can respond, "I'll double it." That would be interesting (in a definitely unethical kinda way) if it weren't so totally horrifying. He doesn't suppose it'd be very polite to tell her he'd rather chew glass than take her up on her offer, though.

Not that he usually _cares_ about being 'polite.' (Yech.) But he's got a couple big projects coming up that he's planning to have Casey do for him as part of her bribe, which she will, of course, refuse to do if he asks this woman if she knows what baby tastes like.

So, exercising his (admittedly thin) knowledge of Tact and Diplomacy,

"Sorry, ma'am. I've only got eyes for one…wallet this evening." She aims a coy smile at him that misses its mark because he isn't looking at her to see it. Across the room, a familiar peal of laughter had pulls his gaze to Casey, currently giggling obnoxiously at a tall young man with dark hair and a disarming smile and an eerily Truman-like twinkle in his eyes. Derek's only frowning because...well, he'll come up with a reason at some point or other. The important thing here is that Casey's laughter is pitched too high, a touch sharp --it's just...it's _off_ somehow.

"That's too bad, young man." He turns the full force of his gaze on the woman when her (pale, scarily bony) hand appears on his shoulder. "Let me know when you're free for an…_engaging_ evening with me." He feels her slip something (her number, unless he's wrong –and when is he ever?) into his pocket and slants her a winning grin.

"It'd absolutely be my pleasure." He lies with shameless ease, simultaneously disgusted at being propositioned by this nightmare woman and intrigued at the notion that he's clearly been missing out on a lucrative business venture. Offering his services as _the_ Derek Venturi? What sweet young thing could resist?

"That is _very good news_." Derek hears her say distractedly, his attentions again riveted on Casey, whose hand is laid out against the mysterious (dead) man's arm while she grins up at him with a smile that falls just shy of her eyes. Something about the way she's standing makes him uneasy, puts him on his guard, impels him to move toward her before he even realizes he's made the decision to do so.

"Duty calls." He remembers, at the very last moment, to bid farewell to Scary Lady, and then Casey happens to look up and catch his gaze with an expression he's fairly certain only he would know to interpret as a plea for help, and Skeletor slips from his mind altogether.

* * *

It occurs to me now that Derek and Skeletor never introduced themselves to one another, and that she still somehow knew that Derek was Casey's date.

These and many, many more plot holes to come!

Tune in next time!


	6. kind of like going mad

I think I might slowly be falling in love with this lil' story of mine. It's vapid, definitely, but it's been interesting and fun tooling around with a Derek who's less about _denying _his feelings for Casey and more about violently _repressing_ his attraction, which has apparently exploded to near-moose proportions now that they're in university together. Alone and whutnot.

Next chapter of _USteps_ will happen eventually, I promise. Just finished the outline today. Only Ray Charles knows how long that'll take to flesh out.

[here's lookin' at you, disclaimer.]

* * *

_::in which Derek is not a morning person::_

It isn't like Derek's managed to _forget_ (certainly not for lack of trying) that in Casey-speak, 'noon' means somewhere roughly between the hours of seven am and Obscene, per se, it's just something he's conveniently (and willfully) _unremembered_ in the intervening time between when university'd started and when he and Casey'd silently, mutually agreed to drop out of each other's lives.

…well…mostly, anyway.

He still sees her periodically (far more often than either of them would ever readily admit to enjoying); occasionally he tags along with her to class (usually without her prior knowledge or consent, and primarily just to throw and/or spit various wads of notebook paper, candy wrapping, or bits of mysterious food-like lumps he discovers in his pockets at the back of her head), sometimes she tries to drag him off to support some ridiculous Cause or other (generally unsuccessfully, except when she bribes him with food and promises all he has to do is Stand There and Look Pretty), and every now and again –to Derek's increasing bewilderment—they run into each other at parties (he's still adjusting to this incomprehensibly large new world, in which there's room for both Casey _and_ himself to be popular in their own circles).

Still, he's been becoming quite comfortable with their unspoken trial arrangement, consisting of a regimented routine of Careful Avoidance and Pretending Not to Know Each Other.

So this recent resurgence of Casey cameos has been unsettling, disruptive, and…complicated. To say the least. Which is pretty much all he's capable of at –he shifts a look askance at the clock half-submerged in a pile of his clothes in one corner of the room—_seven forty in the morning_.

Groaning miserably, he burrows deeper into the dark, warm, sound-buffering comfort of his small mountain of comforters, trusting his lauded Ability to Sleep Through Anything to rescue him in this, his most desperate hour.

Casey appears to have sensed his rallying efforts to will himself unconscious, however, as she has suddenly moved from simply shouting her outrageous demands at him to loudly abusing his door and relentlessly calling his cell phone. Which is all the way across the room, buried under papers and a practice jersey and a paper plate with some unidentifiable substance or other merrily congealing away on top of it.

Wretchedly, aware that the only way to Soothe the Beast is to go out and verbally abuse it, he rolls unhappily out of his bed and trudges resignedly toward what is most assuredly Certain Doom.

When he finally answers the door, he does so in boxers and a t-shirt Marti'd clipped the sleeves off of Once Upon a Time for an impromptu 'found art' project (no thanks to Casey's extolling the values of the medium), and possibly the darkest glower ever before survived by naked human eyes.

Casey looks disgustingly chipper.

"Good morning, Derek!" She proclaims, beaming sunnily.

"Go away." He rumbles, and closes the door in her face.

Half a heartbeat later, the doorknob twists experimentally, and because his brain won't be fully operational for another seven or eight hours (at _least_), instead of simply reaching out to flick the deadbolt into the upright locked position, he reacts instinctively and throws himself against the door frame, bracing his shoulder for impact, an alarmed spike of adrenaline ripping him right out of his drowsy stupor. Which kind of pisses him off. He _likes_ the drowsy stupor.

Several seconds later, she tries pushing through, tentatively. He growls crankily at her and invites her kindly to leave before he is forced to destroy her. In response, she shoves against the door, this time a good deal less uncertainly. The shock of the impact is surprisingly jarring, and worries him.

"C'mon, Derek, let me in! We've only got four days left to figure out what you're gonna wear!" He knows it's useless to argue this point with her; Casey cannot be plied with reason because Casey is _psychotic_. Still, he feels he must somehow make it abundantly clear that there is no way he's going to be spending the next _four days_ being Casey's dress-up doll. No way in _hell_.

"Derek's not here!" He ventures, and then stumbles sideways when she crashes into the door with what he can only assume is some sort of battering ram. Which means that either Casey's managed to enlist some muscle in the form of The Fridge, or his step-sister's freakishness also apparently applies to her strength. Neither prospect is particularly inviting.

Either way, much to Derek's escalating horror, he's beginning to suspect he might actually be _losing_ this contest. And that is a scary thought, indeed.

"_De-rek_!" She calls, and slams into the door with particularly brutal force. For one wild instant, Derek's flailing helplessly in mid-air, and in the very next, he's smacking the back of his head painfully against the carpet when Casey comes flying through the door and lands on top of him. "Derek!" She cries, this time somewhat more anxiously, possibly even worriedly. She gives him maybe a fraction of a second to dwell on this before she begins thoughtlessly dismantling several of the more important precepts of his universe, whimsically reordering his fundamental cosmology when her body slides along his, smooth and warm and shapely, and it isn't until around minute two of her frenetic "oh, god, oh godohgodoh, _god_—" chanting that he realizes she'd only flipped his world on its ear so she could have better access to the back of his head, which she is now tenderly cradling in her cool hands.

Uncomfortably, this does essentially _nothing_ to diminish his awareness of her breasts heaving into his chest with every gasping breath she takes.

"Casey." The curtain of her hair makes it impossible for him to look anywhere but at her. He does so with a healthy measure of miserable captivation and gnawing, brain-bleeding dread.

"We should elevate your wound! No, it's a head wound, we should call an ambulance and make sure you don't have a concussion or spinal damage and—"

"Casey," he tries again, and when she continues madly rambling on, wholly undeterred, he slaps a hand over her mouth. "Will you _shut up_ already? It's too early for me to try and pretend I have any idea what you say when you speak."

"But you might have a head injury!" Unthinkingly, he reaches up with his free hand to give her a light, patronizing thump--

"That's nice, Case."

--which would've been good and fine and harmlessly insulting except…except that his hand is on her _ass_. Which is…different. Although the word his brain would prefer to use is 'horrifying.' Other Parts of him suggest that 'awesome' might be more appropriate.

…except obviously this is the _opposite_ of awesome. Which is, like, 'very, very bad.' (Or, intone those very same Other Parts, 'remarkably, magnificently firm.')

He thinks his brain might be liquefying in his skull.

Casey, meanwhile, has gone all stiff and horrified-looking, so he coolly plays it off by urgently snatching his hand away and staring at the appendage in open revulsion, capping off this rousing performance with an off-handed remark to the effect of how much he's going to miss this hand when he has it _amputated_.

For one (ingloriously _bad_) moment, he thinks Casey sees right through him to that dark, scary place in his brain that occasionally suggests he might enjoy these moments; that he may, in fact, exist only for these short-lived –if curiously frequent—opportunities to Accidentally Sexually Harass her, only mucking his way through the rest of this tedious Life Business to throw her (and obviously, everyone else –himself included) off the scent.

But he's willing to wager that if she _had_ seen through to his Depraved-Boy core, she wouldn't then have taken such pains to be so careful crawling off of him, mindful of his (Casey-induced) Brain Trauma, and she _definitely_ wouldn't have been so leisurely about the whole business, inadvertently provocative as she scoots slowly backwards on top of him (oh, sweet, sweet friction), freeing up her legs to stand, and managing to land with her ass firmly, perfectly aligned with his Shame, gifting him with one brief, tantalizing glimpse of what it might look like to have his step-sister On Top—

--but fortunately-thankfully-mercifully, she lifts herself off of him before he casually puts voice to this Very Interesting Scientific Observation and then probably, like, pulls her back down and starts molesting her in earnest.

"I brought you a couple sport coats to try on." She informs him coolly while he sits up and tries to remember that he and Casey share a sibling. Her ass at eye-level isn't helping his memory issues. "I borrowed a couple from Pam's boyfriend –he's about your size, and I had George send the two he had just in case."

"My dad?" He wonders vaguely, slowly picking himself up off of the floor. "I only agreed to this yesterday; how'd they get here so fast—_hey_." She looks suddenly sheepish, and he hopes he looks sufficiently menacing in his tattered pjs, "I call foul, McDonald. Really, it's as if you knew I'd agree before _I_ did. I feel _used_." She appraises him guiltily, and he sends her a grinning wink, which nonplusses her. "You're finally learning. Bravo." He likes that she looks appalled. Makes him feel accomplished.

"Ass." She murmurs, huffing. Then, "Now, go put something decent on so we can get started." He almost opens his mouth to begin Round Two of today's argument, but then she's got a hold of his elbow (possibly in anticipation of his Inevitable Procrastination) and in the very next breath, she's leading him down the hall, into his bedroom, absently kicking the door closed, and okay, yeah, he can maybe respectfully hold his tongue for a minute or two.

* * *

WOOOO CAFFEINE!


End file.
